


I Cannot, I Shall Not, I Must Not

by oneironym



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, five times and one time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneironym/pseuds/oneironym
Summary: Five times something came between Estinien and Aymeric, and one time they did not allow it.Six related drabbles, I guess, because I ship these two elves like FedEx. Set ambiguously before HW starts.





	1. ... ignore my duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm marking as explicit just in case?
> 
> Heads-up for brief mentions of serious injury/amputation (at the very beginning), and brief mentions of elfsex

Aymeric lay on his back in the snow, watching wyrms wheel overhead. The ground around him was littered with bodies, armored Ishgardians and scaled dragons alike. Whatever the battle had been, it was over, with both sides collecting their injured while swells of smoke and soaring carrion birds darkened the overcast sky. The Lord Commander had lost his arm in the fighting, but he could not recall how; dimly, he felt heat at his shoulder where the limb had been severed, but no pain. He could not raise his head to see where he knew the blood was seeping out into the muddy snow. No matter how he willed it, the Elezen’s body would not move for him.

Was this death, then? He could hear bells, like those that rang out from Saint Reymanaud’s. This must be the Fury welcoming him into Her halls… the bells meant there was somewhere he needed to go….

… No, that particular carillon was neither for welcome or departure, Aymeric began to realize as he gradually became more aware of the sound. The fog lifted from his mind as though burning off in the dawn light - that was right, the bells were ringing to signal Lauds - and his limbs twitched subtly as morbid dreams slipped away. At last, he opened his eyes, and saw with relief only the embossed tin panel ceiling of his bedchamber, barely lit with pre-dawn glow.

The warmth, however, the uncomfortable numbness at his shoulder, and the positively draconic  _ snoring _ , were all far more real. Aymeric grumbled, reaching across his chest with his working arm to prod at Estinien. The well-muscled dragoon was nestled against him, his naked skin comfortably warm against Aymeric’s own, but the Knight-Commander needed to reclaim his arm from where his partner was lying on top of it.

Estinien grunted something prelinguistic and moved his legs slightly where they were tangled with Aymeric’s beneath the covers, but did not awaken. And then another snore dragged out of him like a two-man saw through hardwood. Lauds was early, even for Aymeric, but he would not be up at this hour at all were he not required for duty. And for his dear friend, it was too early to be roused by anything but a marauding dragon.

Aymeric rolled his eyes, then reached up to rub sleep from them. “Estinien, love,” he whispered to his dear friend. Then, more assertively, “Estinien, wake up. I require my arm, and I would rather not have to roll you onto the floor to get it back.” The Azure Dragoon mumbled again, a bit louder, and Aymeric leaned until he could nip with his teeth at the point of his partner’s ear.

“Ghgngnnfnwwhat do you want?” Estinien growled, words mushy with sleep, as he finally stirred. Opening his eyes reluctantly, he rolled over to face Aymeric; their noses nearly touched.

The knight smiled. “I need to get up, and you have got me trapped.”

“Huh?” Estinien’s white hair was a mess from the pillow, and he clumsily brushed some of it out of his face while his mind processed Aymeric’s words. Then: “Oh. Sorry.” With a grunt, he half-lifted himself up, freeing his friend, then flopped down again on the mattress on his back. “Why do you have to go, again?”

Aymeric sat up, experimentally flexing the fingers of his numb hand. “The Archbishop has a dedication to make at Falcon’s Nest at first light. He requested that the Temple Knights be present for added security, because of the increased drake sightings in the area of late.”

Estinien rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. “He wants the Temple Knights? Then what’s the sodding Heaven’s Ward for?” His voice was always more deeply pitched in the mornings for some reason and the tone never failed to give Aymeric a bit of a pleasant chill.

Then less comfortable pins and needles began to make their way down Aymeric’s arm, he frowned as the sensation quickly grew stronger. “I did not ask if any of them would also be attending or not. I merely hoped my presence would at least serve to put the citizens and soldiers stationed there at ease.”

The dragoon stared back at him flatly. “The Archbishop is waking you early enough to be at Falcon’s Nest by Prime, just so you can stand there and look pretty.”

“I do it so well,” Aymeric quipped with a grin. Which then turned abruptly to a grimace as the nerves in his numb limb screamed back to life. “Ffffuck,” he hissed through his teeth. It felt like he had thrust his arm to the shoulder into ice water and a biast’s levinshower simultaneously.

Estinien laughed at him, and pushed himself to a sitting position facing his friend. “Language, from you? And you suck my cock with that mouth?”

“This is your fault, may I remind you,” the knight countered playfully, and then tried not to whine again as another wave of electric ache sizzled down to his fingertips.

“Bah, you put that arm around me before you fell asleep.” He watched Aymeric with a touch of mirth until the black-haired man grunted again, grasping at his shoulder and twitching his fingers.

“... Fury’s tits, you sound worse than our first time,” Estinien sighed with sympathy, reaching out to trace a fingertip down his lover’s cheek. Then he leaned forward, grasping Aymeric’s thigh in one hand; with his other, he reached beneath the covers to stroke his calloused hand over Aymeric’s legs until he found his cock.

The knight was already half-hard with morning wood, and he tipped his head back and groaned helplessly. It was overwhelming at first, with Estinien stroking him off now on top of his arm waking up, but the nerves of his erection quickly took precedence - a more than welcome distraction. At some point during the dragoon’s attentions, he half-climbed into Aymeric’s lap to nestle against his chest again, and by the time Aymeric climaxed, Estinien was there to smother his moans beneath a fierce kiss.

“Forgive me now?” the white-haired Elezen inquired after a few minutes, arms around his lover to help hold him upright. Aymeric nodded, a smile on his lips as he rested his forehead against Estinien’s. 

“Can you feel your hand again?” The dragoon bared his teeth then in a wicked grin. “Can  _ I _ feel your hand again?”

Aymeric sat back, smile fading as he peered into his friend’s eyes and arched one dark brow. “I must needs answer the Archbishop’s summons, you know.” Estinien scowled indignantly, opening his mouth in protest, but before he could say anything, the knight flipped him down on his back on the mattress.

The dragoon tangled his fingers in Aymeric’s black hair as the man slipped beneath the blankets to take his length in his mouth. He was quick and rough with Estinien, tormenting him with teeth and fingers as well as his tongue, because he knew his friend enjoyed it that way and not simply because he was in a hurry. 

Whining and curling his toes and fingers in the blankets, Estinien moaned Aymeric’s name as he came. The knight stretched out alongside him then, and traced his fingertips over the other man’s scarred and muscular chest. Seeing him like this, bare and flushed, boneless and relaxed in the blankets… it made Aymeric dearly wish he could stay in bed with his lover a while longer. The dragoon rarely looked so content and at ease.

Still, Aymeric could hardly shirk his duty to the Archbishop, and they both knew it. With great reluctance, he untangled himself from both Estinien and the sheets. Aymeric pressed several kisses of apology to his partner’s lips, and the dragoon leaned into him again, probing his mouth with his tongue for any lingering taste of himself in Aymeric’s mouth. Finally, the dark-haired knight pulled away, releasing Estinien from his embrace, and sat up, turning away to let his legs hang off the edge of the bed.

Estinien’s hand was at his arm again, squeezing for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something, and Aymeric opened his mouth to reply, but the debate was over before it began. The Lord Commander’s rank offered him a fair degree of autonomy, but he could ill afford to give his political opponents reason to doubt his fitness for the position. His sacred duty could not wait for his personal life. Estinien knew that, but damned if he did not rail against it every chance he got. 

“I’m cold,” the Azure dragoon stated at last. His touch along Aymeric’s thigh made him shiver in the world outside of their warm blankets, and, as though to drive the point home, Estinien withdrew his hand a moment later and pulled the duvet up to his own chin again.

The Lord Commander smiled down at him; he half-reached down to stroke his partner’s jaw with his fingertips, but stopped short of touching Estinien. Gods, he was cold, too, and did not want to leave him. This was hardly a final parting - a few hours at worst - but neither of them wanted to make it any harder. 

“I can always try to make it up to you later. And in the meanwhile, you are always welcome to stay here as long as you like, my friend.”


	2. ... let this armor crack (right?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Estinien is uncomfortable at a party.

Estinien’s formal justaucorps was the single most expensive piece of clothing he owned and he tried to avoid occasion to wear it as much as possible. Still, he had driven himself to the position of Ishgard’s Azure Dragoon through dogged determination and relentless training, and Aymeric had reminded him several times that he deserved some measure of fine treatment. … He only wished that the fine food and fine drink did not always have to come with the need to dress up and mingle with members of the Holy See’s High Houses.

Every single gala and state dinner went the same way, as far as Estinien was concerned, and he felt like he only ever attended for the food. And simply because he had to. Aymeric would drift by to check on him a few times during the evening, but the Lord Commander was most definitely in his element here: not only exercising his skill at the chess games of Ishgardian politics, but managing to  _ enjoy _ himself on top of it.

For better or for worse, everyone at these functions all knew each other and their tendencies already: knights of rank would come to talk to Estinien from time to time, or one of the Counts would have something to discuss, but they all knew to keep it strictly to business with him. And everyone was all the more comfortable for it. He thanked the Fury that there were at least a handful of others who were less than enchanted by fancy get-togethers, and that he had been able to identify enough of them that they could stand side by side and pretend to be in conversation when the need arose.

For the moment, the Azure Dragoon stood watch by the punch table, and he felt his shoulders relax just a bit as his un-dapper compatriot Stephanivien de Haillenarte happened to emerge from the lekking nobles to approach the refreshments. The knight-engineer looked just as out-of-character in his own formal garb; without his customary goggles and bandana, his forehead looked large. More familiar to his features, though, was a smudge of soot across his nose and left cheekbone. Estinien inclined his chin as they caught each other’s eyes, and, as Stephanivien maneuvered to join him, the dragoon grinned and brushed his finger across his own face to point out the dirt.

“Estinien,” the blond Elezen exclaimed cheerfully, reaching out so they could clasp hands in greeting. “How might I be able to convince you this night to humour my father and at least  _ pretend  _ to enjoy yourself?”

The Azure Dragoon laughed and shook his head, then narrowed his eyes at Count de Haillenarte’s eldest. Or at the mark on his face. “You did that on purpose.”

Stephanivien laughed and spread his arms, shrugging. “I lost track of time in my workshop and had to hurry to get dressed. I could scarcely be late to mine own House’s gala.” He paused to fill his glass, then leaned closer to Estinien. “And my question still stands.”

“I am having fun,” Estinien replied unconvincingly. “Unless, of course, you have another spare bottle of brandy from your father’s stash.”

“Not enough to get you to dance on purpose, I wager,” the machinist replied, lips still quirked in a slight smile. He raised his cup in a toast, and after they clinked glasses together, both men drained their punch all at once as though it were something stronger. 

“To dance, or to stumble about while music plays?” The white-haired man arched a brow. “I would need far more instruction than brandy can provide for the former, and I require far less help than it provides for the latter.” By now, the other guests overall knew better than to try to pressure him too much to join, save for perhaps one of the simple line dances that required everyone’s participation.

Stephanivien laughed again, and the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, watching the string quintet and the gaggle of guests dancing. Aymeric was among the most skilled dancers now; his steps were flawless and his features the very picture of contentment and ease. The Countess de Haillenarte served as his current partner in what the dragoon was reasonably certain was a waltz. The two of them conversed even as they followed the music ... and the dragoon found himself feeling, not for the first time, pangs of jealousy. If only he  _ could  _ dance, it might be he in the Lord Commander’s easy embrace, even just for one song.

… No, more likely, he would be treading all over his dear friend’s feet, Estinien reminded himself. All of these galas ran the same way every time, which was why he hated them: not just the posturing and strutting of Ishgard’s nobility under the guise of a party, but the Azure Dragoon rooted firmly along a wall somewhere, at once wishing he could stand as more of an equal with his lover in this atmosphere as well as on the battlefield, while resenting what would be required of him to do so. Perhaps fearing it as well.

He felt his cheeks warming, and, afraid Stephanivien would notice, hastily offered to refill both of their punch glasses. No, Estinien reminded himself as he ladled first Haillenarte’s cup and then his own, he only held the position that he did because it had been thrust upon him. The Azure Dragoon  _ should  _ have but one job - to slay dragons - and Estinien needed nothing more than his vengeance against Nidhogg. Politicking was for Aymeric.

And so was dancing.

The waltz ended, and, as the white-haired Elezen set the ladle back into the punch bowl, his friend came to join him. The smile on Aymeric’s lips showed a hint of genuine happiness through the mask of polite mirth for a moment, and he leaned across the refreshment table slightly to greet Estinien. 

“You are saving some punch for the rest of us, yes?” he teased good-naturedly, a light flush on his cheeks from some combination of the waltzing and the alcohol he had already imbibed. “Has it relaxed you enough that I may safely request a line dance of our musicians?”

Estinien laughed and shook his head, and picked up the scoop once again to refill Aymeric’s cup. Immediately he blushed again, and he hoped that the gin in the punch would serve as an acceptable explanation for it.

_ Teach me _ , he wanted to say, but the words stopped in his throat, unvoiced, as they always did. Which frightened him more - being a bumbling clod with two left feet before Ishgard’s High Houses, or before Aymeric?

Before he had a chance to make his actual response, however, he felt Stephanivien at his elbow; Estinien returned his full cup as the machinist pointed with his chin across the room to where his sister Laniaitte sat uncomfortably beside the Fortemps boy Emmanellain. She somehow manage to appear just as at ease in her armor or her dresses… unless Edmond de Fortemps’ baby-faced son was attempting engage her in conversation as he was now. Aymeric cast a subtle glance back over his shoulder to the pair of them, as well, then looked between the other two men across the refreshment table.

“May I request a favor?” Stephanivien inquired in a low voice, his features somewhere between sympathy and amusement as he watched his younger sister squirm.

For all that Estinien was certain he was the least savvy in the room at reading political maneuverings (or perhaps second-worst, after Emmanellain), he had a feeling he knew what was coming, and looked back to Aymeric.

… Who then reached down to take Estinien’s hand that still held the punch ladle. The dragoon felt a mild panic rise in his chest as Aymeric fixed him with his clear blue eyes and a playful smile.

“I do believe the Rose Knight Commander of Cloudtop may have business to discuss with the Azure Dragoon,” he remarked, tone infuriatingly casual. The string players picked up another tune, a slower dance this time, and the black-haired man raised his voice ever so slightly. “Urgent, I believe you said?”

“Now seems as good a time as any,” Stephanivien promptly agreed, and stepped aside so Aymeric could lead their poor friend around the end of the tables to join him on the side with the dance floor. Aymeric then handed Estinien off to the knight-engineer and relieved him of his drink to free his hands; Stephanivien grasped his shoulder fondly but tightly enough to indicate that escape would not be an option. 

“Please, just one dance until he leaves her alone,” he quietly implored the dragoon. “Just … go slowly and do not tread on her feet, and all will be fine. And my father will be pleased to see you make this attempt besides.”

“I make no promises,” Estinien practically whimpered, “But not out of malice, I assure you.”

“Estinien!” Laniaitte greeted, all but jumping to her feet as her brother dragged the Azure Dragoon to meet her. She spread her arms as though to grasp his shoulders, but stopped short as she realized it was a more soldierly and distinctly less ladylike greeting. Instead she offered the white-haired man her hand, and Estinien took it; he hurriedly forced as real a grin as he could manage given the circumstances.

“Thank you,” Stephanivien murmured in his ear before stepping aside to engage the now-indignantly-flustered Emmanellain to provide his sister enough time to escape.

Estinien’s feet moved him like an ill-maintained automaton towards the dance floor with Lady Laniaitte, and as awkwardly rested his other hand on her hip so they could begin to waddle in a small circle vaguely in time to the music.

“You are a gods-send,” she sighed, echoing her brother’s sentiment. “I know how you hate this, but I shall not forget your sacrifice.” Laniaitte gave him a small grin of sympathy. Then tried and failed at subtlety as she glanced down at Estinien’s feet.

“You know, I’m sure Ser Aymeric would be more than happy to teach you some basic steps. It may help you feel more at ease at these events,” he heard her continue as he caught Aymeric’s eye again where he still stood on safe ground beside the tables of refreshments. The damned arse had the gall to gesture in a toast to him before the Countess de Haillenarte captured the Lord Commander’s attentions again, and Estinien absently bobbed his head.

“I am sure he would….” the dragoon murmured.

But all of these parties were the same: Aymeric played at politics, Estinien lurked by the food on the fringes of activity, and the two of them never quite got around to dancing together.


	3. ... stop worrying about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aymeric is cold.

“Will you please get some sleep, my lord?” Lucia pleaded as she caught Aymeric nodding off not for the first time. “We have two extra watches scheduled tonight as you ordered, and if we hear anything at all of Ser Estinien, I swear you will be the first to know.”

The Lord Commander realized that the chill night air of Coerthas had started to take the feeling from his fingers, even with the warming stove close at hand in the command tent. He sighed, letting his pen roll from his fingertips onto his folding camp desk, then brushed his fringe from his face as he rose from his small seat.

“You’re right,” he conceded, finally turning his clear blue eyes to Lucia. He was exhausted, he realized; it all came crashing down on his shoulders once he was back on his feet, as though someone were hanging on to his pauldrons trying to drag him down. Aymeric raised a fist to his mouth to stifle a yawn, then nodded to the fair-haired knight before bending down to tidy his papers.

A moment later, Lucia was at his side, placing one gloved hand on his pages of reports and logistics, and the other assertively over Aymeric’s own hand.

“Permit me to take care of these for you.” Lucia was not asking. The Lord commander sighed and nodded, smiling slightly and murmuring his thanks before she all but chased him from the tent.

The air was even colder outside the hide walls of the makeshift field command post, but Aymeric’s sleeping tent was not far off. The Ishgardian had spent enough time in the field on excursions such as this one that he had learned to tolerate the cold… but he still shivered as he paused to peer out across the highlands. The eternal snow coupled with a full moon and a clear sky meant that the night was comparatively bright, though the other Temple Knights and soldiers in the camp still had their fires going for warmth. Past the ruined walls of the destroyed village that served as their fortifications against the dragons they hunted, Aymeric could still pinpoint the space between mountains on the horizon where Estinien had disappeared hours before in pursuit of one of Nidhogg’s horde.

Several of the soldiers stoked a larger fire where they heated stones for warming the sleeping tents. Typically, Aymeric and Estinien were comfortable enough with only each other in their tent - the overwhelming majority of the soldiers preferred to sleep in twos and threes to help stave off the biting chill of Coerthas. Tonight, though, Aymeric stopped by the fire to fetch one of the small pails of hot rocks, in hopes of ameliorating even one of his discomforts for the night. 

The two young women tending the fire - Convictors, if he had to guess - scrambled to their feet to salute him as he approached, but the Lord Commander smiled softly and gestured for them to sit down. “As you were. Truly, I am thankful for your work, humble as it may seem,” he told them with sincerity. “I imagine we all are.”

“I don’t mind it s’much, truth be told,” one of the soldiers replied after a moment, and traded a glance with her comrade. Then she laughed an added, “You get a bucket of warm rocks, I get th’ whole fire tonight.”

The other woman chuckled as well, and the pair of them bade the Lord Commander good night before Aymeric departed to return to his own tent.

Holding the pail’s handle in both hands allowed the hot stones to warm Aymeric’s fingers again, and he felt a bit better - physically, at least - by the time he reached his small personal tent. He shrugged off his pauldroncoat outside where he had more space, then hurried into the two-person shelter to take off his boots and remaining armor. The blankets were a relief as Aymeric stretched out beneath them. The fire-warmed stones soon brought the small interior to a reasonable temperature, as well, but they were a poor substitute for Estinien’s presence. For knowing Estinien was still alive and still safe.

Early the previous day, a contingent comprised of Temple Knights, Knights Dragoon, and Convictors had moved out into the Western Highlands near Banepool following reports of a Dravanian called Kulshedra harrying the area. Fortunately or unfortunately, the dragons had saved the soldiers the trouble of finding them when a band of them descended from the skies to attack the Ishgardians. Kulshedra’s brood was not terribly large, but the broodmother herself proved a considerable challenge; it had taken Aymeric, Estinien, and another score of knights to force the daughter of Nidhogg to flee.

And, instead of letting her go in order to reinforce the other soldiers fighting the lesser wyrms that remained, the Azure Dragoon had leapt onto Kulshedra’s back in hopes of slaying her before she could return to her lair.

It was not the first time Estinien had pulled such a stunt.

It was, however, the first time Aymeric had shouted at him,  _ “Run off and die if you must!” _ . And it was the first time that Estinien had rejoined that Aymeric should go fuck himself. And then the dragoon had grasped tight to Kulshedra’s scales and the blood-slick haft of his lance to hang on as the dragon flew off towards the mountains.

All words spoken in the heat of battle, with tensions high and the Lord Commander dragging a badly-wounded soldier to safety, but words the knight now wished he had never permitted past his lips. 

Aymeric rolled onto his back beneath his covers, and folded his hands on his stomach in a pose not unlike the carved stone knights that decorated some of the ancient sarcophagi in the catacombs of Ishgard. Ordering the Azure Dragoon was like ordering a river: while it could be corralled and directed in places, the water knew best where it needed to go. And when it built up speed and fury, no dam or floodwall could hold it back. Aymeric trusted his dear friend’s skill and tenacity, but worried constantly that his single-minded pursuit of vengeance against Nidhogg and his kin inevitably clouded Estinien’s senses.

Silently, he offered a prayer to Halone that he would have a chance to apologize, whether Kulshedra was slain or not. His oft-foul tongued friend would likely understand that anger, frustration, and nerves could make any man say things he did not truly mean, but Aymeric would regret it for the rest of his days if words hurled in anger turned out to be the last ones he spoke to Estinien. Even now, the distinct possibility of it twisted his stomach.

Still, the knight admitted to himself with pangs of guilt,  _ go, go and get yourself killed _ was a sentiment he had felt before, even if he had not given voice to it before today. Estinien had done this before on several occasions, running off after some dragon or another without backup, without warning, without Aymeric. It was not that he wanted a share of the glory of dragonslaying and resented being left to return to some cold tent, or desk full of papers, or insipid field rations. Rather that Aymeric was left  _ alone _ , wondering if he would see his dear friend and lover alive again. Sometimes he found himself almost wishing he could stop worrying, stop caring so damned much.

Because, given the choice between the fighting at Aymeric’s side and pursuing the Wicked Dragon alone, Estinien  _ always _ chose Nidhogg.

It was simply impossible for him to simply stop loving, and he knew it. Aymeric had grown up with the dragoon, fought at his side for years while they were yet foot soldiers; they had been fast friends, and then lovers, sharing a tent when they could even before the Calamity had frozen their home and made it necessary. Hells, Estinien was the only one in Ishgard who would dare tell Lord Commander Aymeric to “go fuck himself” to his face, even; the only one who did not require any political posturing and even resented it the few times Aymeric had been foolish enough to try. The dragoon had long been a safe place to Aymeric, yet times like this were aching reminders that there were still some things that Estinien would not tell him. The knight was loathe to force him, but Nidhogg and his brood were a looming threat that all of Ishgard shared. It was not a burden the white-haired Elezen should have to bear in isolation.

“There is no need to go by yourself, not time and again” the Lord Commander whispered into the dark, and put his arm over his eyes. With luck, this time would be like all the others had been: Estinien would return in a few days in need of both a chirurgeon and an ear for his tale of how he came to require two dozen stitches, but otherwise safe and sound. Aymeric could make amends for what he had said, and then hold his lover in his arms until the chill of anxiety had abated again.

Where ever he was, Estinien would be cold tonight, too, but at least it would mean he was still alive. 


End file.
